Furious
by Fashionably Stupid
Summary: Who would kill someone already bent on self-destruction?
1. Something in Her Eyes

Disclaimer: I don't own these people, though God only knows I wish I did. Please don't sue me. The poetry found in this story is written by a close friend of mine who wishes to remain anonymous. It is used with kind permission.

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter One: Something in Her Eyes

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__

It would be best for you to consider me

in a state of reconstruction.

Is there a devastation at the very center of me?

A jagged, gaping hole?

Is there a blackness in me?

Are my foundations unsteady?

I am shaky and scarred,

I may be shaky and scarred,

but I am disappointing these days,

a woman disowned.

I was rejected by my country just after I had learned its language.

So I moved to a new country with a far more complicated language

and found myself learning from necessity.

Now I stumble in sentences and in conversation.

There are times when I do not know the required word

And I cannot default to my native tongue because I have been so far for so long –

"Whatcha reading?"

Her voice could get on his nerves sometimes. It had a Midwestern quality that could be so endearing yet so deathly irritating.

"...Poems. Poetry."

Eames looked over his shoulder and read the poem on the page, scanning a little further than her partner had gotten. She nodded.

"Good poem," she shrugged, "but it's a little...high school, don't you think?"

Goren tried to subdue himself. High school? What, like dead roses ad self-harm? Like kill your health and kill yourself and kill everything you love? Hardly. This was sophisticated, with neatly placed words and provocative imagery. However, he was in no mood to argue.

"Yeah, a little...She could have done without the... 'shaky and scarred,' I guess."

There was a pause as they both thought, each about very different things. 

"Aren't you going to ask me who it's by?" He was edgy today, but he couldn't really put his finger on why.

"You'll only tell me she's dead."

"...Um, yes. She is dead. Clare Bergen."

"Right. Clare. Well, where do we start? Poetry?"

"No...No, I just like to know everything about someone. Haven't you ever wanted to know everything about someone?"

He watched her think. She was very nice to look at, especially when she was pensive, but then, what woman wasn't? Goren had never really thought of Eames in any kind of sexual manner, though he was grateful for her good looks when it came to the interrogations. He knew it wasn't just his ranting or quiet seduction that made these monsters crack; who couldn't look at Eames' face and not want to tell the truth? Everyone wants to tell the truth to a beautiful woman.

"You know, I don't think everyone can know everything about anyone, Bobby, it's just not possible."

"A...I have a box, here -"

"I see that."

"Of everything Clare wrote. It...There may be some kind of clue in here, maybe she wrote about an enemy...we always have more to say about the things we hate...it could be our greatest resource."

"You know what would be _my_ greatest resource, Bobby?"

"Hmm? What's that?"

She smiled slightly, "The case file."

"Ah. Right." He handed the slim folder to her and she sat down. As she examined the various pictures and reports, he described everything, his voice steady, though his breathing was erratic.

"She was...first stabbed in the femoral artery and was bled to death that way. All of the other wounds were post-mortem."

Eames briefly covered her mouth with the back of her hand and made a small sound when she came across the morgue shot of poor Clare. Even the hardest of cops would gasp. Even Goren had gasped. Eames remembered the crime scene, Clare's bedroom, room five in an eight room mansion, the carpets and walls soaked in blood, but it was nothing compared to Clare's body. There were stabs everywhere, on the legs, the arms, even the face, all of her hair (and, subsequently, some of her scalp) had been hacked off, and her fingernails had been torn out. Neither the hair nor the fingernails had been found at the crime scene.

"It looks..." Goren continued as Eames herself moved on, "like someone tried to cut her face off, but settled for her hair and nails. Just the fingernails, though, not...not the toenails."

"Yes, I see that."

"You know what's odd, though..." His questions never had an upward inflection at the end; all of his statements were flat, but full of meaning.

"The eyes."

"That's right...The eyes weren't touched at all. It's not even like there was any special...attention at all paid to the eyes."

Goren watched at Eames ran her finger over the picture. They were back in sync, working together as well as they always had. 

"She had pretty eyes."

"Hmm?" He was sure he hadn't heard her right.

"I said she had pretty eyes."

"...Yeah. I suppose she did."

Did Clare have pretty eyes? All Goren had noticed was that they hadn't been torn out or slashed or...

"Have you found anything in the poetry?"

"Not...yet. It's in the box in chronological order, she...dated and signed everything she wrote."

"D'you want to divide it up? I'll take the bottom half or something."

"Yeah, there's a lot of stuff here." 

As they read, they discussed details of the case, almost conversationally, almost, Goren thought, as if they knew this Clare, and they were chatting about hearing the news of her death from a friend of a friend. 

"Do you remember what the neighbor said?" Eames asked offhandedly.

"About the screaming?"

"Yeah. That's pretty..." she shuffled to choose her words wisely, "That's pretty fucked up."

Goren let out a soft bark of laughter. It was so rare that Eames cursed, it was funny every time she did. He filed the moment away and then considered her statement: it was true, of course. Mrs. Barbara Mehan, the next door neighbor of the Faye, Donald and Clare Bergen, had said that there was always some kind of screaming in that house. 

"There were some weeks when it never stopped. We had to call the police once. She just wouldn't stop screaming! She wasn't even saying anything, I don't think, just screaming her head off like someone was trying to kill her. Who knew someone was?"

Who knew, indeed, Goren thought as he scanned the pages before him. Nothing was popping out at him; they already knew that she had been taking medication (lithium), which was the subject of much of the poetry, and they had interviewed her longsuffering boyfriend, Adam, who had proved to be verging on sainthood. 

"I took Clare for what she was," Adam had told Eames, "and, yeah, she was a little loony, a little difficult, but when you really love someone..." 

No threat there. Even her parents had loved their screaming, "loony" child, very dearly, in fact. Clare's father, Donald, had been completely useless upon questioning and Faye had to field the conversation. She had been weepy, but substantially less-so than her husband. 

"Clare was, she was difficult," she had told Eames tearfully, "yes, she was a challenge. But her mind was so...she thought on a different level. She just wanted to be like the other kids at school, you know? She wore their clothes, even though she didn't really like those, you know those short shirts? She looked stunning in them, but she always preferred loose-fitting clothes. Looks never mattered to her, and they really shouldn't have."

"She was such a beautiful girl!" her father wailed before excusing himself from the room.

Eames was always so sensitive to the victims of tragedy. Goren hated talking to people at the scene of a crime, especially family members. It was just too much for him, the tears, the denial.

"I have to ask you," Eames had said carefully, "if Clare had any enemies. Can you think of anyone, anyone at all, who would have done this?"

"No one. There was no one. She wasn't popular, you know, but she certainly didn't have any enemies. None that she told us about. And she told us everything. She told us everything."

This wasn't going to be easy.


	2. Hope at the Bottom of the Box

Before I begin, I would like to thank the ever illustrious daf9 for her kind review. Don't be afraid to voice your opinions, folks! And please give the lovely daf9 your patronage and praise. Now, onward.

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Two: Hope at the Bottom of the Box

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They had been reading for what seemed like days. In truth, it had only been about an hour, but it wasn't just the reading that was killing them. At the forty-five minute mark, Eames made a comment:

"We look into their lives, and we read their address books sometimes, but this," she gestured at the mess of paper that littered the desk and floor, "this is every angstrom of this girl's life. I feel like I've known her for years."

"...I know what you mean," Bobby replied in a somewhat sympathetic tone, though he didn't look up from his reading, "It makes you feel like you should have been there...to prevent it."

Eames nodded solemnly. "We can't be everywhere, Bobby."

Goren breathed out. He sometimes forgot the his partner thought as deeply as she did; he was usually so engulfed by his own thoughts and investigations. Eames went back to reading, but Goren stared at her for a moment longer, his brow furrowed, eyes searching. She was right, of course, they couldn't be everywhere. They weren't God, after all. But - 

"Oh! Oh, my God."

"What? What is it?"

"This is something. Read this." She handed him the last paper in her stack, the final poem Clare Bergen ever wrote.

__

Samuel #12

I will kill myself in the morning.

Every day I spend looking at you, you impudent little shit,

Is another year I must spend on the Mountain.

Let's hope your faith doesn't fail you now.

Let's hope you have the strength to pray me out.

You'd better pray, boy, and pray as hard as you can,

Because my ghost is vengeful

And I will never be at rest.

"Is this a suicide note?"

"It...looks that way."

There was a long pause as they considered 

"There are eleven more, Bobby. All about this Samuel."

Goren picked up the poems, scanning them all one by one, speaking the titles aloud.

"Samuel One, Samuel Two, Samuel Three...they all...display an immense hatred for this boy."

"Except this one." Eames pulled the three page epic, Samuel #7 from the pile. Goren scanned over it, mentally cataloging stanzas and lines:

__

Everything is a receptacle for fear,

Every hole, a place to hide from God,

Every home, a sheltering stone.

...

Even as you washed me from your mouth,

I saw knives in your hands.

I shook all night

And told you I was cold.

...

(I don't know you.)

(I don't trust you.)

...

I was smiling then, you see,

Hating you and hating me

...

But it was the final lines that not only revealed the true nature of Clare's relationship with the poem's subject, but also explained the vehemence of the hatred made clear throughout the eleven other poems:

__

My time on this earth has essentially been spent on screaming.

I scream when I bleed, I scream when I cry,

And when I pray to God, I scream out his name and shake like a seizure.

But,

God knows,

With you,

I started to learn

Stillness,

To float,

To glow,

To breathe the breath of the dying.

To burn with the silent fire of the 

Wrath of God.

And you can't take that away from me.

Goren tapped his fingers on the desk and shook his leg a little while he thought. But after too long a silence, it was Eames who spoke:

"We could always check her school roster, see if she shared a class with someone named Samuel."

Goren stilled his nervous habits and gave his partner a bemused smile.

"How...how do you do that?"

"You tell me, Bobby. You're the genius."

His smile widened.

"Let's get to work."

It didn't really matter who said it.


	3. Perfunctory Measures

Self indulgent note: Terribly sorry for the lapse in posting. School calls. Like a fool, I answer.

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Three: Perfunctory Measures

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Goren had the idea to check the roster from a computer, maybe request some records from the school. It was clear to him that this school, The Mount Glory School, an expensive, critically acclaimed private school a little ways outside the city, had done Clare Bergen a hideous wrong. He didn't want to meet the people who ran it, nor did he want to face the students who had rejected Clare.

Goren was of the belief that murders like Clare's didn't just happen. Someone missed something, probably something glaring, but he was tired of being the man who saw the things that everyone else should have. For a fleeting moment, less than a split second, he wished that he really could be everywhere at once, preventing every murder. He was sick of having to deal in Clare Bergens, in scraps of lives, in blood and vomit and sick, sick people. Sick people.

Eames wanted to go to the school.

"What, Bobby, haven't you ever wanted know everything about someone?"

"Ha ha, Alex."

"I thought you'd like that. Here we are."

They parked in the visitors' lot and, to be honest, ambled to the building. The weather was astonishing clement. It was a terrible shame, thought Goren, that Clare should miss such a beautiful day.

When they reached the front of the building, they both took it in: it was quite an architectural wonder, with looming Corinthian columns and a gabled roof. 

"Detectives?"

The headmaster (Eames had said she couldn't believe there were still "headmasters" anywhere outside the movies), Dr. William Guffey, was ushering them inside. He was a smaller man, thin, with a pinched face and glasses that wouldn't stay on his nose properly. He led them to his plush office.

"This tragedy is the worst the school's ever known." His voice was small, clearly attempting to convey the gravity of the situation while simultaneously preserving the school's good name.

"Dr. Guffey, we're going to have to ask you some -"

"Did she tell...anyone she was trying to kill herself?" Goren was in no spirit for solicitudes. 

"She may have told a school counselor, but -"

"Did she...have a connection to anyone named Samuel or...or Sam?"

"There are many, many boys named Samuel here, detective." 

Goren let out a short, almost imperceptible growl. His patience had been short to begin with and this supercilious little man was only making the fuse burn faster. He glanced at his partner out of the corner of his eye. She was staring directly at Dr. Guffey, but Goren sensed her asking him to step back and breathe.

"Well," Goren began again, more slowly, in a measured tone, "Do you think you could...cross reference her schedule and the rosters for the classes she took? See...if there was a Samuel in a class?"

He heard Eames exhale.

"Yes," said Dr. Guffey, looking suspiciously at his questioners. He picked up the phone and called the office of administration to request Clare's records. When he looked up after hanging up the phone, he found both detectives smiling at him.

"Thank you, Doctor Guffey," Eames' tone was friendly. She ran a hand through her hair and leaned back in the chair, as if she could lounge in that office all day, just waiting for that one record. They hadn't even established that Samuel was a real person yet, much less connected him to Clare's murder, but Eames' expression would suggest that the case was already in the bag. Goren chuckled deep inside himself. It came out as a small hum.

An older woman entered the office silently, handed Dr. Guffey a manila folder thick with paper, and departed as suddenly and silently as she had arrived. Dr. Guffey rose, holding the folder under one arm.

"If you'll follow me, detectives."

He led them through the noisy halls toward the library. Both detectives looked very out of place in the crowd of students: Goren was at least a foot taller than most of them, Eames, although of indeterminate age, had a very mature manner that clearly set her apart, plus both of them were wearing suits. Some of the students stopped talking to stare at them for a minute. Everyone seemed to know who they were and why they were there.

They wended their way through the sizeable library, and Eames had to occasionally push her partner along to keep him from stopping to examine a certain book. Dr. Guffey guided them to a practically soundproof glass-front reading room in the very back of the library.

"If you need anything, I'll be in my office." Unsmilingly, he handed the folder to Eames.

"Dr Guffey..." Goren had lowered his voice to adjust to the newfound silence, "If you can think of...anything else, anything that might...help us out..."

"Yes, detective."

"The sooner we get the facts," Eames interjected, "the sooner we'll be out of your hair."

"And...out of your school." Goren gestured briefly at the small group of students who were staring through the glass.

"Yes, detectives." With that, Dr. Guffey walked briskly from the room.

As alone as they were going to get, Goren and Eames exchanged giddy, solemn grins. This was deep, powerful, thrilling. The folder was dense with admonitions, yellow and pink slips of paper, confiscated notes and papers. The top paper was Clare's schedule of classes. Eames looked at her watch.

"Bobby -"

Goren snapped his head up.

"Classes are about to let up. How about I take this," she rustled the schedule, "and interview her teachers, get their rosters, things like that. You can have some quality time with Clare."

"Sure. Sure."

Goren was relieved. He smiled at his partner.

"Cool." Eames ran her hand through her hair again. "I'll be back in a bit."

"I'll be here."


	4. A Caesar Who Was Only Slumming

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Four: Caesar Who Was Only Slumming

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Secretly, this was Alex's favorite part of the investigation, the interviews, and she particularly enjoyed interviewing on her own. She left the interrogation to Bobby, though. They always cracked because of Bobby.

She walked down the emptying hallways of the school, marveling at the sheer volume of adolescents. When she and Bobby had been walking to the library, she had been in amazement that such a small school could hold so many students, plus faculty, plus staff. She watched them all hurrying towards her and was seized by the impulse to stand absolutely still and let them trample her. When she got up enough money, she wanted to fly to Pamplona and run with the bulls. In the deepest chambers of her heart, that was maybe how she wanted to die. She felt a hand on her arm.

"Are you here about Clare?"

the young man who spoke could not be described as handsome, per se, so much as distinctly average. His gray uniform didn't fit him well but his hair was too well-combed to imply nonchalance.

"Yep. Did you know her?"

"Not really. We had Calculus together. She was terrible at it. And she'd, like, freak out in the middle of class and just start crying."

Alex didn't really know what to say. She stared at the boy for a moment, opening her mouth to speak several times, but never actually saying anything. It was the boy who spoke.

"Yeah, well, I gotta go. I'm really sorry she died."

He left without another word. Alex stood still for a minute, being jostled by the students. Were they all sad that Clare was dead? Clearly there was at least one who wasn't. She continued to gently fight her way through the crowd, heading to room 153, in the history wing. 

When she reached it, she rapped surely on the open door.

"Yes, please come in." Mrs. Wiley-Hart, a silver-haired woman in her mid fifties, Clare's 20th Century American History instructor, stood from her desk and flashed Alex a smile that soon faded to a knowing somberness. "You're here about Clare."

"Yes, Mrs. Wiley-Hart -" 

"Please, it's Helen."

"She was your student, Helen?"

"She was. Clare was...She was a challenge."

"That's what I hear."

"Won't you have a seat, miss..."

"Detective Alexandra Eames. Alex."

"Yes, of course, detective."

Inwardly grateful for the sign of respect, Alex sat down in a desk in the front row and took out her notepad.

"I understand Clare was prone to in-class outbursts. Was she ever a problem in your class?"

"Not in mine, exactly. She could be very moody, and she never really said much. I sensed she was troubled right from the start, the way she'd come in looking like she hadn't slept for days."

Mrs. Wiley-Hart paused for a moment and wrung her hands nervously, breaking eye contact with Alex. 

"There was," she continued, fiddling with the collar of her dress, "one incident."

Alex decided not to interrupt.

"We were studying the Korean Conflict, but that's not important. Clare was just staring out the window, she always sat in the back, and she must have seen something or heard something and she started, I don't know, she started whispering something. No one could figure out what she was saying, but she just kept getting louder and louder and then she just stopped. She never stopped looking out the window. I was about to call for security when she just stopped, she stopped talking. That was about all the noise I ever heard her make was that one day." 

"And you never found out what she was looking at?   
  
Mrs. Wiley-Hart's voice suddenly took on an air of shame, as though she were realizing her own modicum of culpability. 

"We – my colleagues and I – we always thought Clare just saw things. Saw things that weren't there. That's all I can tell you, really." 

"Thank you, Helen." Alex began to gather her things. 

"I didn't know, Alex," it came out as a desperate shout. "I have never known anyone, in this school or otherwise, who could ever, ever be capable of committing such a heinous crime." 

The woman took a long breath. 

"I'm sorry I can't be more helpful, detective." 

"It's fine, Mrs. Wiley-Hart," Alex resumed the formality. "You've been helpful enough." 

She gathered up her things and left the room. 

Alex walked steadily now through the still hallways of the Mount Glory School, wondering what her partner was doing. She considered him to be an excellent detective, and a good man, but he was lacking something. It certainly wasn't emotion, nor was it passion for his work, but maybe it was something mental. There had been a few times, in some rare casual moments, when he had hinted that he just wasn't like other people, he didn't think like them, but he wanted to. Alex figured that was why Bobby was perfect for his job: he could only get inside the heads of the worst of the worst, the people no one else could figure out. Alex never sold herself short, however. Bobby couldn't handle interviews, and she knew that. In truth, her people skills were superb enough without comparing them with her partner's. Bobby was great with interrogations, yes, but his tangible empathy skills were a touch sub-par. She knew he felt sympathy for the families, the boyfriends, the teachers and friends, but he related much more powerfully with the victim. More than once, Bobby had remarked on her skills, not that she needed it. She had always believed in intrinsic value, an inner pool of pride. She picked up her step with a bit of a skip, following Clare Bergen's daily routine. Her next destination was room 212, where Clare had taken Creative Writing. 

Once again the door was open. Once again, Alex rapped lightly. 

"Come in." The gruff voice came from a slightly older man who would have been handsome if he had been a little smaller, more compact. He was erasing the large green blackboard at the front of the room. He did not look at his visitor. 

"Mr. Yurka? I'm Detective Alex Eames." 

***

Goren scratched his tooth with his fingernail, though he decided not to look at what it had collected. He wiped his finger on his pants and focussed back on his work. He was amazed at what he was finding: she had been suspended twice, and given countless detentions, all for "severe disruption," "screaming," "disruption," "disruption," "disruption," it went on like that for page after page of reproach. She had never once been praised, not even for her radiantly obvious writing talent. 

There were plenty of examples of that talent in her file, all in the form of confiscated papers. There were fragments of poems, half-finished letters to no one. Goren read every single one of them as deeply as he could, gathering every scrap of information, his brain clicking and cataloging, alphabetizing and filing every angstrom away, some for use on the case, but some, he guiltily admitted, for his personal use. He felt lacking sometimes, and he would often gather as much data on a victim, just to fill up whatever room he had left in him. 

He noted on many pages where Clare had attempted to continue writing, even while the paper was being taken from her. There were pages that had been torn in half. Goren wondered at the sheer force of will it took on the part of these instructors to stop this young woman from performing such a silent, non-disruptive act. The sheets of paper continued to rustle under his fingers as he shuffled through them. If he could have seen himself, he would have seen that his eyes were flickering with a fire that threatened to explode, his mouth was set, though his teeth were grinding. He came across the bottom half of a sheet of paper: 

__

I may have been a king who bled gold.

I may have been a messenger god.

I may have been those claws, those seas, this whole blue and silver space. 

__

I may have been a breezy, gray-eyed sophist

With soft veins and

Stout blood,

With neither pride nor shame,

Sturdy arms, if unwilling,

And an angry, fighting tongue. 

Goren considered Clare's eyes again, untouched and staring. In her morgue shot, he could have sworn she was still thinking, her brain still cogitating, like she would keep her promise. She would never be at rest. 

Everything in the room started to go a little blurry. Goren rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger of his right hand and used his left hand to cover his yawn. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. He had laid himself down in his bed, which he had always found to be more than adequately comfortable, and he had closed his eyes, but his brain wouldn't stop racing around. Sometimes he could hear his own synapses snapping, and this only added to the distraction. He thought about Clare, and he thought about Samuel, trying to envision him, trying to envision gunning that bastard down. He had gotten to sleep eventually, at about 2:30, and it was peaceful for once, deep and dreamless. He woke in the same position he had gone to sleep in. Still, he knew it hadn't been enough. 

He had just gotten settled back into reading what appeared to be a dissertation on why it's not okay to call one's superior a "shit-eating motherfucking pederast from Mars" when there was a knock on the glass. Goren looked up to see a young man, blonde, gaunt, neatly groomed, in a presumptuous stance, waiting and expecting to be let in. Goren gestured for the boy to enter. 

"Are you the detective who's here about Clare?" His voice was blasé, pretentious, rich-blooded and cold. It was the voice of a boy who had never known work, never had to earn. Goren suppressed an old emotion: torn between whether he wanted to throttle the boy or just shudder in disgust. That voice. Goren felt like his hand had accidentally slipped into an unidentified cold, slightly viscous liquid. 

"…My partner and I, yes." 

The boy slung his backpack off his shoulders and let it drop heavily to the floor, then, much to Goren's dismay and disrelish, situated himself on the opposite side of the table. 

"Yeah, I think I saw her." He eyed Goren with a smirk, "She must have been the other one in the suit." 

"Can…can I help you?" 

The boy let out a brief, guttural sigh: "Sam Bruyard. I was a…friend of Clare's." 

"…Will you excuse me a moment?" 


	5. The Game of Charm and Strange

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Five: The Game of Charm and Strange

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Goren left the reading room, taking a breath and reaching for his cellular phone. He quickly dialed his partner.   


"Eames."   


"Alex, we've got him."   


"Who? Sa-"   


"He…calls himself Sam, he says he was a…a friend of Clare's."   


"Oh, thank God."   


"Yeah," Goren looked back briefly into the room, where Samuel sat with his legs loosely crossed, examining his fingernails, "and he's a real piece o'work."   


"I'll be right there."   


He quietly clicked the phone off and reentered the reading room.   


"My…partner'll be here in a minute…In the meantime, why don't you tell me how you knew Clare."   


Sam looked around the stark white room, avoiding the detective's piercing eyes. "She and I were lovers."   


"She had…a boyfriend. Adam."   


A short, disdainful laugh. "You're kidding, right? That boy…what a joke. Clare was a much more complex creature than that oaf could provide for."   


Goren abandoned conversation, arming himself for full interrogation. "She was…crazy. She screamed all the…all the time."   


A smirk. "Yeah."   


The door opened and closed quickly and Eames strode briskly to the table at the end of the room. Goren smilingly relinquished his chair to his partner, his joints popping slightly as he did so from lack of use. He stretched his long legs slowly pacing a trench in the carpeted floor, considering his suspect.   


"You really think I killed her?"   


"Yeah." Eames was in no kidding mood. She wanted desperately to nail this little shit with something, and at this point, she really didn't care what. "Yeah, we really do."   


Sam's smirk became a smile which swiftly gave way to a loud laugh. "Oh, that would be great. That would be so easy for you, wouldn't it?"   


Goren took deep breaths now. His temper was becoming increasingly difficult to control these days. He looked at his partner, calmly staring down their mutual enemy.   


"It would be pretty easy, Sam." Eames' voice was steady and harsh. "If you didn't kill her, you know who did, and either way, no matter what you tell us, I'm going to hate you."   


Sam blinked slowly, visibly unshaken.   


"You know what…I think, Sam?" Goren backed his temper down a notch and lowered his voice to a threatening rumble.   


"No, detective. Tell me what you think."   


"I don't think you killed her, not directly. You were…waiting for her to do herself in." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photocopy of Clare's final poem, walked calmly over to Sam and let the paper flutter into the boy's lap. Sam read it with ostentatious disinterest. "See…you knew she was going to kill herself."   


"Well, you said yourself she was crazy."   


"But I think you're a sick bastard who got tired of what she was giving to you and thought you'd…get your kicks by driving her over the edge. My guess is…you're disappointed someone else got to her before she…got to herself."   


Sam lowered his eyes for a moment. When he raised them, his smirk was more pronounced, and his voice had acquired a thick Southern accent.   


"You see a lot, detective. But are you willing to turn that…high powered perception at your self? Why don't you look at yourself and write down what you see? Or maybe you're afraid to." The boy shook his head in a motion of pity and laughed coldly, standing and hoisting his backpack on his shoulders. "I just thought I'd let you kids know about me, since you've probably already read those pathetic little poems Clare wrote about me. "If there's nothing further, gentlemen?" He left with a chilling look in Eames' direction.   


"I'm sorry, what did I just see?" Eames was angry, but unshaken by Sam's sociopathic display.   


Goren, however, was visibly affected. He could only shake his head and breathe out. Eames spoke again, and this time Goren was relieved to hear her steady, feminine voice.   


"Well, I don't think he killed her, and I think you're right as to the reasons why. He's a cold-hearted bastard, isn't he?"   
  


"…Yeah."   


There was a pause.   


"He's…impressive."   


Goren watched the face of his partner. Her expression transformed smoothly from one of agreement to one of contemplation to eventually one of revelation. 

"Whadoyou say to paying Adam another visit?" 


	6. Heart Like A Wheel

I hope you kids are still finding this interesting. I'm really trying to keep the action intriguing and keep our detectives in character. If anyone has any suggestions or anything, don't hesitate to tell me. Thank you to everyone for the great reviews!

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Six: Heart Like A Wheel

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Both detectives were grateful to leave the school. For all of its architectural grandeur, it was rotting on the inside, patriarchal and secretive. In Goren's mind, it was really no better than a common cult, led by an all-powerful Caucasian male who sorted out the worthy and the unworthy. As they drove away from the place, Goren silently entertained a suspicion that Dr. Guffey was the real mastermind behind the crime, but the very idea of it made him laugh out loud. 

"What's so funny?" 

"I was just thinking back to Dr…Prufrock back there spearheading the…Down With Clare club." 

Eames laughed at the thought. Goren seemed to be fairly light-spirited considering what they had just been witness to. It was clear, though, that he was still very troubled. 

"What did you…turn up with her teachers?" 

They made a right turn into the pleasant suburban community where Clare's Adam lived. 

"Just that no one was sorry to see her go. Maybe they didn't want it to happen quite as violently as it did, but even then they referred to it as a blot on the school's record." 

"Hm." 

"What do you think?" 

They pulled into Adam's driveway when Eames answered her own question.

"Personally, I think we're at the right place." 

They walked up to the door, rang the bell and waited. Adam himself answered. 

"Oh, hey." 

"Hey, Adam." Goren's mouth turned up into a friendly smile. 

"You guys wanna come in?" 

"That'd be great. We just need to…ask a few more questions, no big deal." 

When they had first interviewed Adam, it had been at the crime scene, in Clare's house. Adam lived with is parents in a luxurious five-bedroom single family home. Its furnishings were plush and overstuffed in deep greens and burgundies. Goren breathed deeply of the air in the house and was almost choked by the amount of oxygen. The house smelled like a jungle for all the plants; they were everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, decorating every piece of available floorspace. 

"There are...a lot of plants here, Adam. It makes the air...heavy, rich. Very healthy."

"Yeah, my mom's a botanist, that's what she does. That rose right there," he pointed to a particularly stunning red and yellow rose, "she designed that rose. It's up for Best Hybrid Rose at some botany awards thing. I'm not making that up! They give awards for these things."

Goren let out a small laugh through his nose and shot a glance at his partner who was looking less amused. His laugh faded and his dubious, curious, vaguely professional demeanor returned. He continued to look around the house, now with an air of suspicion.

"What...does your dad do, Adam?"

"He teaches anatomy at NYU. He's up for tenure in a year. Can I get you guys anything? Like, food or something."

"No, that's okay, I think we'd just like to get down to tacks and get out, stop bothering you."

Eames was speaking at a clip, clearly determined. They took their places on the living room couch, Goren still looking around, taking in the very richness of the house, Eames staring right at Adam.

"Did you know Clare was trying to kill herself, Adam?"

"Wha-"

"She had made it clear to her lover, Samuel Bruyard, that she was going to kill herself. That was just before she was murdered."

"Oh, my God." The boy's head drooped despondently, not as ferociously as Goren would have thought, almost as if Adam had been expecting this news. "Did he kill her? I mean, he must have."

"We're not sure of...anything just yet. Was she having...sex with both of you, then?"

Adam's face grew bitter. "She screamed almost every time I touched her. We never...she and I never..."

"So the subject never...came up." Goren suppressed a smile.

"Yeah, that's it. I didn't think she was...with Sam...I thought she hated him! She never had anything but terrible things to say about him. She even wrote those three poems about him, you know?"

Goren and Eames looked at each other, trying to decide which one of them should just say it. He nodded. She spoke.

"There were twelve poems, Adam. Twelve poems about Sam. The last of which was her suicide note. D'you mean to say you didn't know any of this?"

Adam now looked appropriate dumbfounded.

"Huh." It was all he could manage. "Huh."

"Could you...show me where your kitchen is? I could really go for a glass of water."

"I'll get it for you, uh, sir," Adam looked like he was about to cry and wanted to get out of the room to avoid embarrassment. "I'll be back in a sec."

He left the living room and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

"You're really...gung ho about this, ar'n'tcha, Eames?" They spoke in hushed tones now.

"How would you feel if your girl was giving it up for a slimeball like Sam Bruyard but screamed every time you touched her? Wouldn't you feel like killing her?"

Goren stopped short a moment. "Yes."

Adam returned with two glasses of water, giving one to Goren and one to Eames.

"Thanks." Eames was a little taken aback by the gesture of politeness.

"Yeah. No problem." Adam was plainspoken, to the point. His statements were abrupt, but always sincere. "I miss Clare, detectives. I want justice to be served. I loved her. She taught me so much."

Goren nodded and glanced at Eames, who had now taken a more relaxed posture on the couch, letting her eyes search the room.

"What'd your parents think of Clare, Adam?" Her gaze had found its way back to the boy.

"You'll have to ask them, detective. I don't think they liked her very much, but my parents are, like, really classy people. Clare was an animal compared to their circle."

Goren let out another small laugh. "Yeah, I know the types. But she was a...beautiful girl. Yeah, she had very...pretty...eyes." 

Adam's back went straight and his hands suddenly clutched to one another. Goren and Eames looked at each other, Eames' eyes wide, Goren's eyes saying "you were right."

The boy's mouth opened and closed, not widely, but silently. When the tears began to fall, both detectives softened their expressions slightly.

Adam tried to speak through his sobs. "She. Was the most. B-beautiful thing I've e.ver 

s-s-s-eeeeeeennnn." His shoulders shook with the force of despair.

There was a commotion from the foyer, as if on cue, that made the detectives jump.

"Adam, darling? I'm hom – Who are you people? What business do you have with my son?"


	7. Gates to the Garden

You'll have to forgive my infernal lateness. Spring Break, mucho schoolwork, and a surprising amount of research on this story in particular (as well as the seeds of a new story that I'm slowly waffling over). Damned if New York isn't a tough place to navigate. If I've made any mistakes, please feel free to correct me. The way I see it is: my house in Germantown, MD was about a half hour from D.C. I guess Mineola is the same way. Only, you know, I'll bet Mineola isn't a hell hole.

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Seven: Gates to the Garden

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Marjorie Lee Charles first met Arnold Bettis in the summer of 1978 when some of her mail accidentally found its way into his mailbox. She remembers the wariness she felt when she heard the knock on the door; she had always been unaccustomed to company. Marjorie's childhood had been, on the whole, a happy one, if quiet, and strangers had always left her self-conscious and on slightly shaky ground. Arnold, of course, remembers the sheer beauty of the woman who opened the door.

For the first three years that they knew each other, one considered the other a friend. They dated other people, but each regarded the other as a beacon and a rock-solid foundation. Their sudden marriage in January of 1981 came as a shock to their friends, but they soon came to accept the private, mysterious couple. 

Marjorie took a job as a professional landscape designer and continued her studies on rose breeding. Arnold, who had only recently received his master's degree in biology (from Princeton, no less, and intended to seek his Ph.D.), received an invitation to teach a Living Environment at the Manhattan Center for Science and Mathematics, a prestigious, privately funded high school. 

When Marjorie's father, Willard Stanley Charles IV, a greatly acclaimed lawyer and general philanthropist, died after a bold struggle with stomach cancer in late 1984, he left the bulk of his fortune to his daughter, his only child. While Marjorie loved her father dearly and was much aggrieved to see her second parent die, the money, approximately $500,000, bequeathed to her and her husband was, to say the least, most welcome indeed. Combining this with the sizeable nest egg they had accrued through three years of steady frugality, they moved out of their cramped apartment and took out a mortgage on the spacious five bedroom home in Mineola they still occupy today. They enjoy the distance from the city, but they also appreciate their proximity to what some would consider the cultural center of the country, if not the world.

It was a February morning in 1985 when she woke up feeling that something was not right. She went to the bathroom and threw up.

"I think I'm going to have a baby," she told her husband.

"Huh."

Marjorie was a very personable expectant mother. For the most part, her temper was even, though the pains in her back became somewhat intolerable. The majority of her work can be done in her own home; during her pregnancy, she allowed herself time in her small office only to negotiate and begin preliminary designs. As she was in everything, Marjorie was sensible and calm.

In October of that year, Adam Charles Bettis was born, slightly heavier than average, but slightly longer, too. He was a difficult birth.

"It sounded like a battle to the death in there," a doctor who was passing by her delivery room was heard to remark. "Worse than usual, even."

Adam was the pride and joy of the Bettis family: handsome, sharp, classy. He was always the first in his class to learn the latest skill. He was blessed with his mother's even temper, but his father's secret lust for adventure, and though he was never denied even the slightest whimsy, he did not turn spoiled. When Arnold completed his postgraduate work, however, and was offered a professorship at NYU, the family's social station became their life. Suddenly, Adam's generous intelligence was just another symbol of prestige, another pawn in the societal game. But if you asked Marjorie or Arnold, "We're no different than most folks," would be their only reply. 

It was two years ago, when Adam first introduced Clare Bergen, that Marjorie started to feel the effects of her high status. She did not want to shake the thin girl's hand; she didn't even want that thing in her house. She feigned cordiality until Clare announced that her departure.

"Good Lord, Adam," she exclaimed after Clare was gone. "Where on earth did you find this girl?"

"She's in come of my classes, mom. She's my friend."

"But she's so - "

"She's so beautiful is what she is. She's so articulate and well-read and…and just beautiful."

"Adam, she's completely disheveled. Her hair!"

"Maybe it's time those things stopped being important! Maybe it's time to stop thinking about things in terms of - "

"Mrs…Bettis? I'm detective…Goren and this is detective Eames."

"We were just asking Adam a few more questions about Clare."

"Are you allowed to do that? I mean, without me here?"

"It's all right, mom, I let them in."

A small argument ensued, but Marjorie allowed the detectives to stay. 

"I suppose you'll be needing some answers from me, too," she sighed.

"Only if you have answers to give, Mrs. Bettis. Any information you have would be helpful."

"Well, I didn't like her, detectives. I'm not glad she's dead, but I simply didn't like her, for my own reasons." She gave a longsuffering glance at her son. "I certainly didn't like my boy being seen with her."

"Mom - "

"And don't think people didn't say things, Adam!" She turned to him now, raising her voice. "Your father and I have been dodging bullets – figurative bullets, of course, detectives, verbal bullets – from everyone in this neighborhood since you first started holding her skinny, grubby little hand."

"Mom! Can this wait? I'm sure these detectives only want to know about Clare's…you know…"

"Well," Marjorie turned back to the detectives, seamlessly flowing from spiteful to benevolent, almost like an ancient god, "I know for a fact the Bruyard's boy, Samuel, who always has a kind word to say about everyone, he's such a sweet boy, he tended to get a little, how should I put it, strange whenever the subject a Clare came up, like he knew something we didn't."

Goren was writing everything down as if it were a question to which he didn't already know the answer. He would periodically glance at Adam, trying to gauge his reaction, noticing that the boy's handsome face was contorting somewhat, especially at the name of Bruyard, and his hands were subtly clenching in and out of fists.

"In my experience with that girl," Marjorie continued, "I never found a reason for anyone to like her, nor could I ever see the object of my son's affection."

"Well," Eames interjected coolly, "love is different for everyone, Mrs. Bettis."

The occupants of the room raised their eyebrows at the comment, including Goren. He even dared to breathe out slightly in what could have been construed as a laugh, breaking the ensuing stillness.

"That's very true, detective." Marjorie blinked several times to compose herself.

Eames drew in a deep breath and closed her notepad.

"I think we have all we need for today, Mrs. Bettis."

"But we'll…get back to you soon."

"Well, you're always welcome in this house, detectives." Marjorie paused a moment. "I really am sorry that she's dead. I am never happy when someone dies, and when it's in such a horrible manner…do you have any, what do you call them, leads?" Her tone was earnest.

"Not yet, Mrs. Bettis. But we've just gotten started."

"If you…think of anything else, Mrs. Bettis…don't…hesitate to call us. Anything at all."

"Of course."

"Thanks, guy – detectives," Adam said quietly. "And if you need, like, anything else, or if I think of anything…" he trailed off, visibly aggrieved.

***

When they got back to the car, Goren opened the door for his partner.

"And they say chivalry is dead."

"They say…the same thing about punk, but I'll never believe 'em. You were a real badass in there."

Eames had to laugh out loud. It had been a very long day for her and she could see her partner faring no better. He took his place in the passenger's seat and they set back for "the office."

"Well, that's what happens when people dick me around."

Goren let out a low whistle. "They really…they really pissed you off, didn't they?"

"More mother than son. Anyway, I just hate the rich in general."

It was Goren's turn to laugh. Not only because he shared her sentiments (but only to a degree), but also because he always enjoyed her more candid moments.

"So whaddoyou think?"

"What…like, who done it?" He made an effort to divide the three separate words.

"Pretty much. I want this to be _over_."

  
"…I don't…think it's going to be easy, Alex…or pretty. I don't think Adam had a…a hand in it, but he…didn't do much to prevent it."

"But who would? According to popular record, Clare was a terror. And the who sex thing…" She pulled a face without even knowing it and made a gesture of pushing something away with her hands. "Honestly, I don't even want to touch it."

They drove in silence for a little while, contemplating, concentrating, but trying their damnedest not to.

"I think…we need more from…Mr. Bruyard. I think it's…safe to say he had a hand in it."

"I think he lost a watch in it. And don't you mean you need more from Mr. Bruyard?" Eames was only half joking. For some reason, and she knew she was being silly, she couldn't bear the thought of being in the same room as that boy. 

"Actually, I was thinking…just the two of you…"

"Bobby -"

"Come on, Eames, you can probably get more out of him."

"What? Why? Because I'm a woman?"

"…Yes."

"B -"

"AND…And because of that, I think he'll trust you more than he'll trust me."

"I hate you, Bobby. I hate you so…fucking…much." In the course of her sentence, she had descended into laughter. Bobby's pleading face was simply too much for her.

"…You wouldn't be the first." 

The rest of the drive was filled with talk about the recent information. Adam was sketchy, they decided. He certainly had motive, but lacked the brutality and, Goren pointed out, the necessary brute strength.

"So does Bruyard," Eames replied. 

"But Bruyard would be able to…bend someone more readily. Do you…d'you see what I'm saying?"

"Blah blah blah," Eames replied. "Evil genius. I've heard it all before." 


	8. The Damage We Do by the Hopes That We Ra...

All right, y'all. Your patience is unspeakably appreciated. We'd better get started before I start getting all misty-eyed. The semester went well, and my B- average has been gracefully maintained. Oh, and thanks for all the donuts!

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Eight: The Damage We Do by the Hopes That We Raise

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People who like people, who trust people, really piss off people like Bobby Goren and Alexandra Eames. Deakins was one of those people.

"Has it ever occurred to either of you that this Bruyard kid's got no motive?"

His detectives just stared him blankly. He felt compelled to persevere until he elicited a reaction. 

All I'm saying," he continued, "is that Adam's the one with all the reasons."

More silence. He sighed. "It's been a long day."

Eames breathed out. "Finally, something I agree with," she said.

The silence broken, Deakins decided to try one last wheedle. "I think you're wasting your time with Bruy - "

"You didn't…see him. You never heard…that voice." Goren was visibly perturbed by the memory.

"Seriously, sir." Eames' voice was firm, her words falling like a fortifying hand on her partner's shoulder. "That boy would kill you soon as look at you."

"Still - "

Something in Eames cracked quietly. She stood up to look Deakins in the eye, keeping her knuckles curled on the desk. 

"Would you like to interview Sam Bruyard, sir? I think you'd like him. He's Aryan as all hell and he does a great Jodie Foster ." There was a hush.

"He…basically disregarded Clare. She was…nothing to him, she was…just a toy to him, a project. He talked about her like she was…last week's laundry."

Eames nodded. "I think that killing her would come as easily to him as…" She lost her thought. "Help me out here, Bobby."

Everyone in the room breathed out in relief. The tension had been broken. 

"I think it's time you both went home." Deakins was smiling now.

Bobby immediately began to gather up his papers. Eames just picked up her purse and, with a brief, easy farewell, departed.

* * *

The drive home was thankfully manageable for both detectives. Goren refueled his car about halfway through the journey. While stopped, he gazed beyond the overhang of the station to the dark sky. The stars were invisible to him through the city lights, and it occurred to him then that he hadn't left the city in far too long. The thunk of the pump shutting off thankfully broke what could have been an overly morose reverie. That night, he slept uneasily, wanting nothing more than the wheels of justice to turn in Clare Bergen's favor. That night he dreamed that a living Clare was speaking to him; he found neither help nor comfort in the poetry he heard.

__

The sun, like a simple curtain,

rises on another gloriously selfish morning,

another day to rhyme away the hours of the sun.

No one is exempt;

no one can escape the morning,

neither in sickness, nor in sleep,

nor in the sticky artifice of love.

The sun must shine on everyone,

and everyone must pluck out their hairs and

tentatively flex their muscles in its harsh and scorching light.

The sun must play the mirror to our faults,

and we cannot face him because we cannot bear to face ourselves.

We choke through our days

buzzing and chugging,

sitting and waiting

and waiting

and sooner or later our minds will turn to sin

For sin is bred of boredom,

Sin is bred of youth,

Sin is bred of a strongly misguided search for truth.

Truth that is invariably hollow and

notoriously thankless.

Truth as futile as purity.

Purity as futile as war.

War as deadly as truth.

Truth rising as a jarring, unpleasant monument to the

ease with which we shove each other down;

rising like a wave of weedy inequality;

rising like the sun to scorch our sorry frames,

our peaceful minds,

while sin plays the cave to our hollow shouts of hedonism.

and we howl and grunt and bang

the drum.

Sin is a cave.

Truth is a hole,

deep, silent,

with high and slick and bloody walls.

Scratch as you may,

scream as you will,

you are only with yourself,

staring at the walls,

staring at yourself,

like staring at the sun.

So sin while you may.

Sin while you must.

Sin while you still have pink in you.

Sin while the sun rises and

Sin while it shines.

And spend the rest of your life on your crushed and guilty knees.

* * *

The night for Eames fared no better. When she stumbled into her apartment, she knew she wasn't tired enough to sleep, but when she tried to read, her eyes kept closing, presenting a photo-negative image of Clare Bergen's bald, unsmiling head. She flipped on the television to watch the remainder of a rerun of "Friends," laughing occasionally, but mostly staring, not even watching, with glazed-eyes. She fell asleep too early and left the TV on. She woke up feeling scared for the first time in a great while.

* * *

"So how is this going to work?"

"The way it always works, Eames. You know how to do your job."

"I don't think it's safe to leave me alone in a room with that boy. The urge to throttle him just might overpower me." She was not smiling.

"…Your hands are too small…" Bobby cracked a tentative smile at his own joke. He knew this day would belong to Eames.

Eames laughed loudly, fluently. It was a laugh of relief. Deakins laughed, too, briefly but not nervously. He knew his detectives, and he knew they were both uneasy about interviewing Sam Bruyard; all three regarded the task of extracting information from the boy as delicate and necessary as disarming a particularly volatile bomb.

An queasy silence followed the laughter. Bobby opened and closed his mouth a few times before:

"He should…be here soon. With his parents."

"Good." Someone said it. It sounded like Eames, but no one could be sure. A haze had descended over them, a mist of sorts. 

Sam was supposed to arrive with his parents in about ten minutes, and both detectives were getting tired of waiting. Eames was feeling particularly antsy: She was becoming increasingly anxious thinking about what kind of people would raise such a seemingly cold-hearted child. She began to review her mental list of questions, trying to hear her voice, stern and demanding; but a part, albeit a small part, of her was doubting Sam's guilt, even unto his involvement. More and more her thoughts turned toward Adam: While he was the less despicable of the two suspects, he was indeed the most suspicious. He was also, Eames couldn't help thinking, the one Clare Bergen wasn't having sex with.

"Goren." There was a knock and a voice at their door. It was a fellow officer, though Eames was struggling to find his name.

"…They're here…" It was not a question.

Both detectives rose from their chairs. Eames felt slightly lightheaded and cursed herself for feeling so. She stonewalled her face, set her mouth straight, but not pursed, and caught her absolute balance. She was almost ready, she had been almost ready all morning, and then she felt Goren's hand on her shoulder.

"Let's go," she said firmly. A part of her wished she had gotten a little more sleep. 


	9. Whisper Our Secret Into Your Hands and H...

So my mom says to me, "Erin, they like you, but they won't wait forever." Had she added, "So why don't you just quit your job at the Video Vault and write this fic full time! We'll support you. Heck, we'll even fix it up so's you don't have to sleep on the couch all summer," maybe I'd have a little more kick in my fingers. But, hey, you know me, I can't complain. I'll try to keep it coming as fast as I can, I promise. I promise! Just…stop with the wire hangers, would you? I think that's a bit overkill.

A quick P.S. If anyone thinks a CI / Six Feet Under crossover is ridiculous, let me know now before I start writing it. Thanks!

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Nine: Whisper Our Secret Into Your Hands And Hold It In Between

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The details of Sam Bruyard's life were, and are, dull, gaudy, and cobwebbed. So no one cared about the car he was given before he could drive, the Polish au paire to whom he lost his virginity at age 13, not even the stately manor he stood to inherit when his parents, both immutable descendants of the original Plymouth pilgrims, effectively died. No one was particularly concerned about the luxury of his infancy, the satin lining on his crib, the Montessori school, the stream of shapely babysitters, the banquets of exotic foods, the well-oiled transition into the Mount Glory School. No, it was really just that one thing people were after these days. 

"With all due respect, detectives, this is ridiculous. My son did not kill that girl." Colin Bruyard's voice was sanctimonious, but tiredly so. He was a man in his late forties, a banker, his gaunt features much reflected in his son, though the elder's posture was much more swaybacked, wearied through years of days on days.

"With all due respect, Mr. Bruyard, no one's saying he did." Eames' voice never once wavered, and with good reason. All traces of the trepidation that had gripped her previously had either vanished or become imperceptible.

"Samuel has been quite distressed since the inception of this circus. He wants to help, but I really don't see the need for an interrogation." Claudia Bruyard's voice lacked the haughtiness of her husband's but not the exhaustion. She was statuesque in body, and her face was warm and ovoid, but her features betrayed only slight rivulets of regret, guilt, and an emotion that Eames was having trouble reading, perhaps an emotion she herself had never felt.

"…If I may…" Goren began tentatively. Alex nodded for him to continue. "This isn't an…interrogation, exactly. More of a…a fact finding mission."

"We don't know if Sam was involved in the actual crime or not, ma'am," Deakins began, though without the carefulness of his detectives, "but he has suggested to detective Goren here that he may know something that we may find useful."

"We just want to…know…what he knows." Goren's smile was shy and, he hoped, disarming.

"So if you will just come with us, we'll ask what we need to ask and then it'll all be done." Alex's tone was one of brisk aplomb, keeping in mind that Samuel himself had remained silent throughout these proceedings. When she spoke, she stared straight at him. "I don't think this'll take very long at all."

"Why then, by all means, detective." Sam took a slight step forward. It was not an ostentatious move in and of itself, but Alex was sure he meant it to be momentous.

Alex turned on her heel and began to make her way toward the interrogation room. Behind her she heard the shuffle and clack of the others beginning to follow her. It was a short way, but each step was becoming increasingly leaden with thought. Was Sam guilty? She secretly hoped that she was, but her integrity as an agent of the law would not allow her to – 

"This is your day."

Goren had caught up to with a quick shuffle, and he spoke softly. Alex looked up at him with a lightly skeptical look.

"Every day's my day, Bobby. Today's my day to kick ass."

Goren laughed lightly.

"What? You're just not used to me kicking ass!" She whispered fiercely, but with a grin.

Her partner was practically now, and he spoke between hiccups of laughter. 

"Usually…you're the…the wing man."

"Oh, you're on a roll today, aren't you, Bobby?"

He put on a thoughtful face, and Alex couldn't tell if he faking it. "Yeah…I guess I am."

"You." Alex pointed to the observation room. "In there."

Bobby gave her a look that was the facial equivalent of a "thumbs-up" and stepped inside the room. Deakins followed, passing Alex wordlessly and with only a slight glance over his shoulder. Alex turned to the Bruyards.

"Mr. Bruyard," her eyes flitted from one parent to the other, mindful of her words, "Mrs. Bruyard. You have the choice to stay with your son during this session, but you may learn some unwelcome truths about your son and his relationship with Clare Bergman."

She took a breath, rubbing the index and middle finger of her right hand together, wishing deep in her mind that it would make a cricket sound.

"You may also," she continued with a touch of nervous relish, "be privy to some of the more gruesome details of Clare's life and death."

There was a short pause before Mr. Bruyard spoke. His face was sober, but not lugubrious; Alex felt sorry for him then. No one, she thought, deserved to be that old. When he spoke, he spoke quickly, with practice.

"I would like a chance to object on behalf of my son should he begin to waive his constitutional rights." He took a breath. "There are some things he just shouldn't say without a lawyer."

Claudia nodded benignly. "I'll leave the objecting to my husband. As a matter of fact, I'd prefer to stay out of these proceedings altogether." Her eyes pleadingly searched her husband's face.

Colin briefly latched a comforting arm around his wife's shoulders.

"You can wait in our office, Mrs. Bruyard." Alex tried to make her smile as sincere and unpitying as possible, but she could still feel her lips forcing themselves apart unnaturally and her nostrils flaring in an attempt to breathe out a fake and innocuous semi-laugh.

"Thank you," Claudia answered, her head slightly bowed, "and please, detective, call me Claudia." She retreated.

Alex ushered father and son into the grey interrogation room and took her seat at the large table, gesturing for them to do the same.

"I won't lie to you, Sam," Alex kicked off the conversation, "we don't think you killed Clare Bergen, but we're pretty sure you know who did it and why."

Sam Bruyard, who had yet to say a word of substance, let out a short but loud laugh.

"Son, I fail to see what's funny here." Colin's voice was resigned, but harsh.

"I just think it's rather rich," that _voice_ again, "that I'm not the one they suspect, I know who they suspect, and yet I'm the one they're so zealously pursuing."

"S-" Colin was interrupted by Alex's seemingly flippant but deadly serious response.

"Of course we're pursuing you, Sam. It's our job; we're detectives, we were put on this earth to detect. And we de_tect_ that you know some very choice information about the person who cold-bloodedly slaughtered Clare Bergen. All my partner and I want is all of the information you have about it, then we'll be out of your hair until it's time for trial."

"Detective," Sam said, his brow sardonically furrowed, "you're wasting more time in…extraction speeches than you are asking me actual questions."

Alex bit her lip. The time had come to throw this boy's own gimmick back in his face.

"But you and I don't reckon time the same way, do we, Sam?" One corner of her mouth quirked up. "This is all the time you'll ever have."

"Funny," Sam replied firmly. "No, really, I think it's clever you caught on. I don't know who killed Clare. You probably think it's that Adam boy, but I don't think he has the effrontery, if you will, nor the intense rage to pull of something of such…brutal magnitude."

Alex was completely nonplussed, and her face showed as much. She shook her head slowly, her mouth betraying a touch of pity.

"Sam, I'm not asking for your albeit imaginative speculation, nor am I entirely interested in your roundly uneducated attempts at what you think it profiling. I'm here for facts. Give me facts."

Sam snorted briefly before cowing to his father's bitter gaze. He sighed heavily, and when he spoke, his voice lacked its typical steel-tipped verbosity. "Adam told me he thought his father might have had something to do with it. Good God, that man hated Clare; hated it even more that his son, that would be Adam, was being seen in public with her." There was a long pause as Sam collected his thoughts and words. When he spoke again, it was in the same humble tone. "Mr. Bettis never knew about the connection I had with Clare. I always shut up about her whenever they started their little diminishment sessions; they'd insult everything from her hair to her speech patterns, they'd speculate about her ability to produce children. The cruelty was unwarranted, detective, and it was wanton."

Alex leaned forward and clasped her hands together on the table. "Did they ever-"

"Yes. Mr. Bettis said very plainly one night, completely sober, that the country could do with one less Clare Bergen. He said he'd kill her if he had the chance."

Alex made a move to interrupt with another question, but Sam continued unabated.

"I hesitate to say, detective, that it was no more than just talk, but I can't point to anything specific that would suggest a definite beginning. He was a bad father, detective, a relentless man, and an overbearing husband."

"Did you ever see him interact with Clare, Sam? Did he ever talk to her, anything?"

Alex felt like she was seeing a man alternate personalities. Sam's head lolled for a moment, his eyes closed, remembering what appeared to Alex to a be a secret he'd kept for as long as he could remember. Her gears had started working at a double pace, and answers were beginning to converge. With great difficulty, Sam spoke.

"It was at school, actually, out back, by the dumpsters. I indulge in the odd cigarette, but smoking on grounds is strictly prohibited. I saw Mr. Bettis practically drag that poor girl back there, pulling her by the arm. She wasn't screaming, which I found odd, since that was almost like her shtick. He said something like, 'You're crazy, you just need to shut up.' It was most surreal, and he was angry as the devil. Finally, he pulled her hair, she had long hair then, this was about two weeks before…before…anyway, he twisted her hair and pulled her down to her knees. His face was red and he had his teeth bared like this," Sam pulled his lips back, producing his surgically straight teeth, "and he said, and I'll never forget this, 'Leave my son, get out of this school, pack up your second rate family and get the hell out of this town, or I'll kill you and make you watch.' He tore out a huge hank of her hair. The next day, Clare had cut it all off."

A pause.

"Oh, God, son." Colin Bruyard's voice was faint. "You can't be serious."

Sam never took his eyes off Alex, his voice slowly regaining its barb. "I wish it weren't that obvious, detective. It's been really fun fucking with your head. Your partner, too," he threw a sideways nod to the mirrored glass of the observation room, dropping his voice to a whisper, "I'll bet a thousand he dreams about you."

"Thank you Sam, Mr. Bruyard. I think we've gotten what we came for." Alex's voice disclosed a hint of a smile that spoke a volume all its own.

"Thank you, detective." Colin's voice was genuine. He extended his hand, and Alex took it without a second thought.

"It's been charming," Sam said darkly, his voice regaining its fierce smugness. Alex flashed him a look that told him to keep his hands to himself.

* * * 

Alex expected to feel exhausted, but she didn't. Once the Bruyards had left the building, she followed Goren and Deakins back the their desk, plopped ungracefully down in her chair, and yawned.

"Do we have what we need?"

"That threat…that's pretty concrete…"

Deakins rubbed his chin, not convinced. "It's not enough to go to the DA. You two get Bettis in here. Tell him he's a suspect. God, this case sucks." He turned, then turned back. "Thanks again, Alex." The he was gone.

"Any time, chief." Alex was feeling gratuitously chipper. She measured it out to about two parts giddiness at this latest information, and one part pride at extracting it.

Goren sat down across from her. "You were…a real trooper in there…Alex." His voice was candid.

"Thanks, Bobby, really, but I don't need any attaboys."

"…Of course not," he stared at her blankly. "You're a girl."

Alex grinned and mimed a rim-shot.

Goren's tone turned serious as he flipped through his brown notebook, looking for the phone number he had written down for Arnold Bettis. "Eames…we can't go into this…assuming anything. The only…thing we can really assume is…that Sam Bruyard lied to us."

Suddenly, Alex didn't know what she was feeling. She was a little bit crestfallen, but mostly scared. What if the information she had so carefully extracted meant nothing? They had started with nothing and they hadn't gotten that much more. With that thought, her internal thoughts became external of its own accord.

"Clare Bergen was crazy. Everyone hated her. Someone killed her."

"We…don't know…who it was."

"And we can't assume anything."

"…God, this case sucks."


	10. We're Onto Your Same Old Trick

Finally, the move to the new apartment is complete. Plus the sun's come out!

If I may preface this with a brief comment: I'm currently rereading _The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon_ by Stephen King. I've come to understand that I owe a great debt of gratitude to that man, for blurring the lines between poetry and prose. daf9 and RivErStaR have knighted me with the compliment of "a real talent for description." I owe it all to Mr. King.

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Ten: We're Onto Your Same Old Trick

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Suddenly, everything had gotten irrationally boring. Bobby Goren was actually yawning in the car on the way to pick up Arnold Bettis for questioning, and his partner was practically asleep in her seat. Eames leaned her head against the window, so much so she thought it would give, and watched her eyelashes as her eyelids rose and fell with her struggle to remain awake. 

"…This'll be over soon, I think…It all seems fairly…it seems solid at this point."

Eames jerked her head up and yawned. "No assumptions, Bobby."

"…Right," he answered with a small laugh.

A long silence drifted between them. Bobby would occasionally venture to glance at his partner, who was still fighting for a reason to stay awake, but beyond that his eyes remained on the road three seconds ahead of him. That is not to say, however, that the road was his primary concentration; he knew his exits, the pavement was smooth. He very systematically let his mind drift. It didn't get very far.

__

Beautiful boy,

no applicable power,

child of intellect.

Prodigal and sly, revelling in answerless dilemmas,

more fascinated by knots in wood.

You are a canker to mankind.

You are a shame, a waste, a snake. 

Let's pretend that you and I are lovers.

Will you kiss my mouth? Or is that too obvious?

You will trace a trail around my breasts

with your extravagant hands.

You are well kept, honed, talented, glittering.

You will kiss my knees perhaps expecting me to shout to heaven,

never knowing

that you are not the only machine in this room.

Another Clare poem. Another Clare opus. Another Clare opus, the second of twelve, about Sam Bruyard. Bobby kept hoping that the poetry would help him help the case, but it never did. In fact, it only served to keep the worn-out detective cripplingly attached to the poor girl. Now, however, Bobby thought harder, splitting his thoughts between the road and poetry. The road was straighter now, and more idyllic. There were no exurbs, no pedestrians or stoplights, so his thoughts were free to wander within their confines. He thought back to some poems of Clare's that didn't quite fit her usual intense, fiercely sad nature. He could only remember it in snatches – he had regarded it only briefly while flipping through "the box" just the day before – but he knew for certain that it was a love poem.

__

So maybe there's not something wrong after all,

Not outside that place,

That place where you freed me.

* * *

There are not enough words, I say,

Not enough words in the language  
To say the things that language was made to say.

It is the fault of language and it is the fault of blood

And it is the fault of all those forces over which we exert no force.

It is the fault of time that no one can keep your hours,

And no one can keep your hours.

* * *

We were two green ambassadors of a fledgling generation.

And that is the end of the story.

She had clearly loved Adam. Adam had been to her, as Goren had read somewhere else in here oeuvre, "like a fox through a forest / like one light in a city of lights." But it had only been in her later poems that this had shown itself.

When Clare loved, Goren decided, it was completely and without doubt. Her love was, apparently, also above physical contact. Goren felt sad, then as this brought about thoughts of his own experiences: sex without joy, mirthless, angry physicality. That is…was…what Clare and Sam had. It was ugly, yes, but it had its purpose. Goren's mouth set itself as he thought. There are parts of ourselves, he resolved, that we simply cannot show to the people we really love. When one keeps secrets, the last thing one wants to be is naked.

"Keep it doooown," Eames groaned, her head still against the window. Her lack of decent sleep was catching up with her in the form of unconstitutional boredom, and the silence in the car was oppressive.

Bobby furrowed his brow. "…I…wasn't saying…anything."

"I can hear the gears in you head clicking away. If you going to think, just…no, actually, don't think. Just stop it. Stop doing that thing you do with your brain."

Goren almost pulled a muscle trying not to laugh. His partner seemed serious enough, so he decided not to push his luck.

"…Sorry…We're almost there anyway."

Eames lifted her head from the window, trying to remember exactly where it was they were going. To her, this case seemed like a series of hops and jumps from stones of misery to misery to greater misery; feeling particularly poetic, she thought she would just as soon fall into the river. No matter what came next, Eames knew she wasn't looking forward to it. For the briefest flickering second, she thought maybe it really would be the end of it; this case really would be as simple as it seemed. It'd had its cinematic twists, its routine deceptions and irritations and apprehensions, but now they would be able to swagger in, spout a scripted quip, and book 'im.

"…but I can only hope it'll be as simple as that."

Oh, shit. Goren had been talking for God know how long.

"I'm sorry," Eames grogged. "I haven't heard a damn word."

Her partner let out a small laugh. "…That's fine. You look tired. I was just hoping that this case'll…end right now. It'll be…cleaner that way…" He trailed off.

Eames rubbed her eyes, simultaneously reawakening herself and steeling up for the approaching meeting.

"Bobby," she sighed heavily, "if you have one of your theories, please, please, please keep it to your god damned self! I don't care if this man is obsessive compulsive or erotomaniacal or has fucking syphilis and that's why he did what we think he did. If he did it, he did. If he didn't…we're on to the next. Could we keep it that simple?"

Goren smiled thoughtfully. "…What if I'm right?"

"Well, then you can…beat me with a baseball bat. Until then, though, let's keep it professional. No lying, no evidence tampering. I'm getting tired of that crap. It gets the job done, but it does it wrong."

"There were…so many grammatical problems with that sentence, Alex."

"Shut up!" She almost stopped her laugh, but decided against it.

"…Professional…I can pull that off, I think…"

"Good deal. We're here."

A quick image flashed before Eames' eyes, a picture she had seen in a magazine she had flipped through at the Supersaver a few weeks ago: a woman pushing a man down with her foot and flexing her arms like a muscleman. _IT'S THAT SIMPLE!_, the article's headline had proclaimed, with the subtitle, _How To Keep That Guy Hot For You Forever._ Eames had laughed derisively when she had seen it, but now that was how she hoped this confrontation would end: for once with her on top.


End file.
